Edge of Honor (17 page)

“The man’s mad,” Duncan muttered. “That means taking on the Russian Mafiya. Tell your insurance company and they’ll cancel your life insurance.”

“It can’t be that bad,” Pontowski said.

“It is,” Bender replied. He sat back in an overstuffed chair, folded his fingers together with his elbows resting on the arms and studied them. He had set the challenge and knew his men. It was one of the reasons he was a general.

Duncan’s voice went soft. “What do you want us to do, General?” Underneath his calm exterior, his heart was beating rapidly.

“Pete, I want you to help the Poles create a viable anticrime task force similar to our FBI but with more muscle. Matt, the Poles need a tactical air force that can control their own airspace. We’re selling them F-16s through NATO, but they need training. That’s where you come in.”

“Are these related in some way?” Pontowski asked.

Duncan tried to look bored but he had read the reports coming from every major law-enforcement agency in America and Western Europe. “Is Saint Patrick Irish?”

Pontowski laughed. “As a matter of fact, no.”

“Poland’s airspace is effectively uncontrolled,” Bender explained. “Russian organized crime is using it as a shipment tube for drugs.”

“I’m not current in the F-16.”

“Five weeks at Luke Air Force Base can fix that,” Bender said.

“So what’s my cover in Poland?”

“You’ll head up my Office of Defense Cooperation responsible for selling the Poles training packages. But your real job is to give the Poles a full-up tactical air force.”

“Like the package World Security Systems was selling at the Williams air show?”

“Very similar.”

“That will really piss Beason off,” Pontowski said, recalling the last time he had met the senior Beason. Then another thought came to him. “I’ve never been to Poland.”

“It’s always nice to visit the old sod,” Duncan allowed, reminding Pontowski of his heritage. “Count me in.”

“But it’s the wrong sod for you,” Pontowski said.

“True,” Duncan replied. “But the Irish love lost causes.”

The White House

The three women and Sam Kennett, who composed the Kitchen Cabinet, clustered around Turner in a protective huddle in her private study next to the Oval Office. Opposite them sat Patrick Flannery Shaw, the consummate po
litical bandmaster. He was a shaggy bear of a man in a rumpled dark brown plaid suit. His tie and collar button were loose and his shoes needed a shine. Shaw was a man who could destroy the political opposition, intimidate the media, and raise campaign money by the truckload. He cared little for legal niceties and less for ethical principles. But they all knew why he was there. He won elections.

“Well, Mizz President,” Shaw drawled, his old confidence back in place. “It’s nice to be among friends.”

Gwen Anderson, the secretary of health and human services and a charter member of the Kitchen Cabinet, glared at him. “It’s Mrs. President or Madame President.” She looked at Turner. “Do we really need him?” Her tone of voice proclaimed she would gladly perform a brain transplant on Shaw without benefit of anesthesia.

Shaw regrouped. “Madame President, I suspect I’m here because you’re going to run for reelection. You can manage a campaign without me, but I can do it better than anyone else.”

Gwen Anderson glared at him. The memory of how he had taken her out of consideration for the vice presidency was still sharp and painful. She looked at Kennett. “Sam, you’re a wonderful vice president and my friend. But I can never forgive that man for what he did to me.” She focused all her wrath on Shaw. “If you’re so damn good, convince me.”

Shaw’s whole life revolved around politics and he stayed awake at night plotting destruction on his political enemies who he simply called
the bastards
. At one time, he had mistakenly lumped Anderson with them. “The bastards are hurtin’ for a candidate. If they get on the stick, they might be able to groom someone to run against Sam here in six years. But for naught-four they’re hurting.”

“Tell us something we don’t know,” Anderson muttered. “The only way they can win is by attacking the president. It’s going to be a dirty campaign.”

“They’ve got the money and backing to do it,” Kennett added.

Shaw’s big head slumped, his chin on his chest. “Madame President, you’re going to win because I’m gonna
make you the greatest president who ever sat in the Oval Office.”

Anderson was skeptical. “And how do you propose to do that?”

Shaw came to his feet, remarkably agile for his weight. He paced the office, alive and animated. “We stake out the moral high ground and never budge. We run on one issue; a vision for the future. We have one message; only the president has the moral integrity and courage to lead the nation forward. Our focus is the middle class and our finances are above reproach.”

Anderson’s voice was full of disbelief. “Do you really think that Ronnie Reagan’s ‘morning in America’ feelgood is going to work when the attack ads start?”

“They won’t,” Kennett replied.

“Right,” Anderson scoffed.

Kennett gestured at Shaw. “They won’t because of him. Everyone knows he wrote the book on dirty tricks and below-the-belt tactics. He’s the master and no one can match him. We keep him in the background, always waiting, ready to leap on the first fool who crosses the line. He’s our hole card no one wants played.”

“Are they that afraid of you?” Maura asked Shaw.

Shaw chose his words carefully. More than anyone in the room, Maura was the one he had to win over. And she hated his guts more than Gwen Anderson. “I’d like to think they are.” Shaw tried to sound humble, but it ran counter to his nature. “You can never be sure, but last week Dan Beason offered me a consulting job at $2.5 million per year with a five-year contract.” They all knew who Daniel Beason was. “Duties to be negotiated after signing the contract.”

“They really want to sideline you,” Kennett said, amazed at the amount of money.

“That’s why it will work,” Shaw replied.

“I’m intrigued,” Turner said. “Lay it out.” She knew the way Shaw worked and they were hearing a well-planned and rehearsed extravaganza worthy of a Ziegfeld. She listened as he took center stage and orchestrated the opening movement for her reelection. When she had heard enough, she raised a hand, cutting him off in midflow.
“We’ll talk next week.” The meeting was over and Maura was the last to leave.

For a moment, they were alone. “Are you sure? Do you really want this?”

Turner gave a little nod. “More than you’ll ever know.”

There were tears in Maura’s eyes. “He’s telling you what you want to hear.”

“I know.”

Bonn, Germany

The motorcade drove in stately grandeur up the twisting drive to the palace overlooking the former capital of West Germany. Vashin gazed out the window as they approached the magnificent structure. “The dream came back last night,” he confided to Geraldine.

“Was it the same or different?”

“Much the same. I was drifting in clouds. Suddenly the mist parted and I could see a golden ray of sunlight shining on the Kremlin. It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Were you still in the clouds?”

“Yes. It was like I was ready to descend to earth.”

The Mercedes-Benz limousine turned into the roundabout and coasted to a stop in front of the main entrance. Von Lubeck came down the steps between the flags and honor guard. “The man meeting you is Herbert von Lubeck,” Geraldine said. “His official title is first secretary to the deputy minister for economic research…”

Vashin waved a hand, cutting her off. “He’s nothing. This is an insult. I’m wasting my time here.”

Geraldine shot a worried look at Tom Johnson. She had to smooth over Vashin’s ruffled feelings. “I’ve heard that von Lubeck speaks directly to the chancellor.”

Johnson saved it in the nick of time. “In Washington, he was treated with kid gloves and had direct access to the Oval Office. He’s the man who gets things done with the Germans.”

Vashin finally nodded as the door was opened. He stepped out and greeted von Lubeck like a long-lost friend as they walked into the palace. Geraldine gave Johnson a look of relief. “Thanks Tom. As you Yanks like to say, I owe you one.”

Johnson grinned. “How about tonight? And bring a friend.”

“Male or female?”

“Female. Young, pretty, and blond.”

“And if she has a German accent?”

“Then we’ll have our own international piece conference.”

Geraldine caught the pun and arched an eyebrow.

Von Lubeck stood in front of the fireplace as he lit his cigar. For a moment, he savored the warmth of the fire that held the cold November night at bay. He rolled the cigar and puffed it to life. It was late and they had been dancing around the subject most of Saturday afternoon and well into the evening. It was time to start negotiations. “It has been a delightful evening, my friend,” he said, speaking Russian. It was one of the five languages he spoke fluently. He poured himself another brandy and freshened Vashin’s vodka. “Unfortunately, there are complications.”

“There are always problems. In Russia they are shortlived.”

“Yes, I see.” And von Lubeck did. It confirmed the German estimation of Vashin as a vicious, illiterate peasant. But a very dangerous one. “Then you are aware of the latest difficulty?” No response from Vashin. “Your minister of defense is traveling in secret to Brussels to meet with NATO.”

Vashin’s head snapped up at the mention of Vitaly Rodonov. “When?” His stomach churned in anger.

“Four days from now, on Wednesday.”

“Why?” Vashin spat the word out.

“The president of the United States wants NATO to restrict your diplomatic landing rights in Europe, starting with Poland.”

Vashin forced his anger back into its cage. “I can’t
allow the”—he almost said bitch—“United States to do that.”

Von Lubeck studied his guest wondering if he would throw one of the fits German intelligence had reported. The extensive dossier had thoroughly bisected Vashin and described him as a clever sociopath suffering from epileptic fits. But close-up and in the flesh, von Lubeck saw only an illiterate Russian peasant. His instincts told him it was time to speak in terms a peasant understood. “The Americans have a phrase; a dog never shits in his own backyard.”

“In Russia, a dog shits where he wants.”

“German dogs shit where their masters want and most Germans see Poland as their backyard.”

Vashin’s head jerked toward von Lubeck. Geraldine had told him the Germans were interested in “respective areas of interest in Poland.” But he hadn’t believed her. Only recognized heads of state dealt with such matters. He was surprised to see a pleasant smile on the German’s face.

“You see, my friend?” von Lubeck ventured. “We have a problem.” Von Lubeck waited for Vashin’s reply, but as expected, the cagey peasant wanted to hear more. “As long as the Russian dog only shits in eastern Poland and none of the shit flows into Germany, we can reach an accommodation.”

“Sometimes shit flows in directions which the Russian dog did not intend.”

Von Lubeck nodded in understanding. Vashin was telling him he could not keep drugs out of Germany once it hit the streets. “That is not a problem if the Russian dog doesn’t care how we clean it up.”

“We need a map of Poland,” Vashin said.

The Hill

Zeth barely nodded when she hurried past Brian and Matt in the dining hall. Her lips were compressed into a narrow line. “What’s eating her?” Brian asked. Matt shrugged an answer. They finished supper, bussed their trays, and left to take advantage of the thirty minutes before night study
hall began. They wandered into the cadet lounge in John Ross Thomas Hall where Zeth was sitting in a corner looking despondent.

“Is everything okay?” Matt asked.

She pulled a letter out of her pocket and unfolded it. She reread it, still in a state of disbelief. “Do you remember when we went to dinner at the Ruidoso Jockey Club? I met a zoomie there.”

The boys nodded, recalling the tall Third Class cadet from the Air Force Academy they had met. “Yeah,” Brian said. “He was cool.”

“I invited him to the dance Saturday night and he accepted.” She folded the letter and put it back in her pocket.

“Cool,” Matt said.

She hung her head in despair. “I can’t go unless I get my GPA up to 2.0.” She stood up. “I have to call him.”

“Is it chemistry?” Matt asked. A slight nod in answer. “Don’t you have another test tomorrow?”

Again, the little nod. They could tell she was on the edge of tears.

“I need to get at least a B. But I won’t know the results until Friday and then it’ll be too late to stop him from coming down.”

“You won’t bust it,” Matt assured her.

Brian came alive. “Tell your teacher why you got to know the results. I’ll bet he’ll grade it right away.”

“Yeah,” Matt said. “And we hit the books right now.”

Suddenly, Brian didn’t look so happy. “What about our math test tomorrow? I thought we were going to study for it tonight.” He needed Matt to help him as much as Zeth did.

“We can wing it,” Matt said.

Brian stomped off, unhappy to be studying on his own “Right. Wing it.”

The White House

It was a quiet dinner in the family dining room in the official residence. The table had been shortened to make
it more intimate and Sarah sat opposite Pontowski while Maura and Maddy faced each other. “Did you know,” Sarah said, “that everybody’s name here but mine starts with an
M
? Maura, Madeline, and Matthew.”

“And there’s Matt,” Maura said, thinking of Pontowski’s son.

“Let’s see,” Pontowski said, making a show of it. “The letter
M
is the thirteenth letter and shares the center of the alphabet with
N
.”

“Do you always think in terms of numbers?” Sarah asked.

“Sorta,” Pontowski conceded.

“Good,” the little girl announced. “You can help me with my math homework.” She slipped off her chair and dragged him to the family room.

Maura shifted and came to her feet. “I’ve got to lose some weight,” she moaned. She followed Maddy. “I’m glad you invited him to dinner,” she murmured.

“Well, he is in town and I wanted to talk to him—”

“About the boys, no doubt.”

“Exactly,” Maddy replied.

“He’s a hunk,” Maura murmured.

Maddy raised her eyebrows. “Do you think so?”

Maddy was content to let Sarah dominate Pontowski’s attention as he helped her with her homework. Maura’s knitting needles clicked in the background as she watched TV and gave an old-fashioned patina to the evening. Finally, it was Sarah’s bedtime and Maddy hustled her daughter off to bed. Maura stirred to follow her. “No, I’ll tuck her in,” Maddy said, leaving them alone. Sarah set a speed record getting into bed and gave her mother a good-night kiss. “Mom, I really like him.”

“So do I. But that’s a secret between you and me.” She gave Sarah a playful tickle. “So don’t tell anyone, Chubs.” She kissed Sarah on top of her head and turned out the light. “Sleep tight.”

Pontowski was talking quietly to Maura when she rejoined them in the family room. Maura faked a yawn and excused herself, claiming it had been a long day. Once alone, they made small talk, taking little steps of discovery
on the path to a stronger relationship. An inner voice told her it was time to take a giant leap forward and see where they landed. Regardless of how they felt about each other, she was, above all, the president of the United States.

“Matt, I was talking to Robert, General Bender, the other day about the ‘Quadrennial Defense Review’ and the subject of women in combat came up. He said there were problems we need to address now, before it’s too late. Doesn’t your fighter wing have women?”

“Yep, sure do.”

“Are you having problems?”

Pontowski sensed why she had brought the subject up. “Maddy, I’m personally against women in combat. But the military is an extension of the government and we implement government policy. If my government wants women in combat, I’ll put them in combat. But every decision has a price. Unfortunately, in the military, the bill comes due in combat when lives are at stake.”

She took his hand in hers and held it. “You never answered my question.”

“We have problems. But my wing is a reserve outfit so what I’m experiencing may be unique. The real problem is that I’m not allowed to talk about it. My bosses tell me to integrate women. End of discussion. Problems and results are not part of that equation. So I stand tall in the grass, salute, and say ‘Yes, sir,’ and do the best I can.”

His tone of voice was matter-of-fact, his manner easy and relaxed. He was not challenging her or asking for a special understanding. Maddy’s intuition shouted they were on the same wavelength. “Can you be more specific?”

Again, his answer was straightforward. “The attrition rate among women is too high, which means a decrease in readiness.” He felt her hand stiffen at the word Bender had focused on. Misreading her reaction, he automatically started to massage her hands as he talked, concentrating more on her hands than on his words. “On the flight line and in maintenance, women suffer more physical injuries, which means more medical care. That’s not a problem in Missouri, but it will be in a forward operating location
where there’s limited medical care and I need every person I’ve got available for duty.”

“Ummm,” she murmured. “That feels good. Matt, would you—” She gave him a pleading look.

He laughed, enchanting her. “You want your feet rubbed!”

She scooted back and brought her feet up, dropping them in his lap. “How did you know?”

“You’re dealing with a fighter jock here, Madame. We know the way to a woman’s heart.”

She stifled her reply. Instead she asked, “When do you leave?”

“It’s back to Knob Noster tomorrow—”

“Knob Noster?”

He laughed, again drawing her to him. “That’s the name of the town where my base is located. It’ll take me a couple of days to clear my desk and turn the wing over to my replacement. Then it’s on to Luke Air Force Base for a quick refresher in the F-16. I’ll be there for five weeks, then off to Poland.”

“Will you be in the States for Christmas?”

“That’s the plan. I finish training on December twentieth.”

She glanced at her watch. “Matt—”

“I know, time to go.”

Maddy reached out and touched his cheek. “It was a lovely evening.”

“It was. Thanks for inviting me.” They stood and she walked with him into the hall. Outside, an intern from the social office was waiting to escort him out. Again, they said good night and shook hands. But it was really more of a caress than a formal goodbye.

She closed the door and sat down by the phone. After thinking for a few moments, she picked it up and called Dennis. “Is it set up?” She listened for a few moments and said, “I’ll be right down.” She walked to the window and looked out over the park as images of Pontowski kept demanding her attention. “Only daydreams,” she murmured to herself. She walked out into the hall.

Behind her, the Secret Service agent on duty spoke into his radio. “Magic is moving.” In the Secret Service com
mand post directly below the Oval Office, the lighted panel traced her steps as she rode the elevator to the basement and headed for a small staff break room not far from the kitchen.

Dennis was waiting for her. “He’s on his way.” Turner nodded and stepped inside. On one table was a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, a tumbler of water, a bowl of peanuts, some glasses, and a root beer. She sat down and poured herself a drink from the bottle of root beer.

“This will do fine,” she told Dennis. “We used to meet late at night in party headquarters in Sacramento. I’d cry a lot, he’d drink, and we’d talk.” For a moment, she was back in California, a freshman state senator, in over her head, and very alone.

“Madame President,” Shaw said from the doorway. He smiled when he saw the bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He knew what she was doing. “Just like old times.” He sat down and poured himself a drink. Then he grabbed a handful of peanuts and munched a mouthful. He glanced over his shoulder at Dennis who was sitting beside the closed door. His presence announced the rules had changed. “Patrick,” she began, her voice friendly and relaxed, “I’ve been thinking about what you said last week. I like your approach.”

Instinctively, Shaw sensed it was truth-to-tell time or he would end up back in some California city running elections for a desperate mayor or wanna-be assemblyman. “Madame President, it was what you needed to hear.” All traces of his Southern accent were gone. “To make it work, I’ll need to set up a war room similar to Clinton’s and make the appropriate noises. I’ll put a stable of tame reporters together and leak stories about how you have to keep me in check. The bastards will be so busy looking over their shoulders at me that you can scamper in home free.”